


Tech Support

by KaticaLocke



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaticaLocke/pseuds/KaticaLocke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Ingram is the sole founder of IFT, Harold is tech support, and sexual harassment is the same as foreplay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can thank selkie3 over at LJ for this one: "I want an AU where Finch is like the IT fix it guy, and Nate keeps spilling coffee on his keyboard so Finch has to visit him!" Of course, once my twisted little plot-bunnies got a hold of it, it turned kind of dark. I think Ingram is a bit too much of a sexual predator, but hopefully I can redeem him by the end. And I completely screwed with continuity and the timeline, just because I felt like it. I hope you enjoy and hopefully I can get the second part finished soon.

~*~*~*~

Harold Finch sat in his cubicle on the fifth floor of IFT, trying to ignore the painful way his headset dug into his scalp just above his left ear. There was no one on the line at the moment -- he was answering technical questions via instant message and e-mail -- but the IT floor manager was a real stickler when it came to response times and if he wasn't ready to answer a call at a moment's notice, he could get written up again, and a third strike would mean his termination.

The sudden shrill ring of the phone through the headset made him jump and he quickly reached over and pressed the button to answer it. "IFT Technical Support, this is Harold. How may I assist you?"

"Harold, it's Brian."

Harold tensed, his stomach churning, his heart starting to race. There would be only one reason for Brian to call him. "Again? Can't you send someone else?"

"He asked for you. Sort of. Called you Herbert."

Harold grimaced. "Tell him I'm sick."

"Are you?"

"I think I'm about to be."

"Look, Harold, I'm sorry, but you either need to file a harassment complaint or do your job. I can't go putting mine at risk making excuses for you."

"I know. I'm sorry," Harold said. He sighed. "Tell him I'm on my way." Five minutes later, Harold stood nervously in the express elevator, speeding up to the eighty-fifth floor. When the door opened, he stepped out into a lavish hallway, with thick carpet on the floor and expensive art on the walls -- originals, not prints. He limped down the silent corridor and through the heavily frosted glass doors into the office suite of Nathan Ingram.

Mr. Ingram was the founder, owner, CEO, president, Lord and Master, and God of IFT. He was so rich, so powerful, so charming, so handsome, he answered to no one and no one dared oppose him, especially not a nobody like Harold. Harold knew he was lucky to have a job at IFT -- blessed, even. After his accident, IFT had paid all his medical bills, paid him his regular wages while he was recovering, and had accommodated him time to work from home, allowed him half-days, and given him time for all his physical therapy appointments. He couldn't have asked for a better place to work. His boss, however...

"Hello, Harold," Mr. Ingram said, seated behind his work desk, an array of computer monitors arranged before him.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ingram," Harold said. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I'm having issues with my hardware," Mr. Ingram said. "Perhaps you could come take a look."

"Did you spill coffee in your keyboard again?" Harold asked, seeing no reason to get any closer to the man if all he needed was to run down to the supply room.

Mr. Ingram cocked his head to one side. "Are you saying I'm clumsy, Harold?"

Harold felt the color drain from his face. "No. No, sir, I- I would never."  _Fuck._ "I was just-- I mean-- This  _is_ the third time you've called me this week, sir."

"So you do think I'm clumsy."

Harold swallowed hard. "No, sir. Accidents happen. I- I'll take a look at your system now." He hurried over, his hip aching. He checked all the connections first, making sure everything was plugged in properly. It was amazing how often a serious problem turned out to nothing more than loose cable. Unfortunately, this wasn't one of those times.

"I think the problem might be down there," Mr. Ingram said, indicating beneath his desk, where the tower sat. Harold doubted it, but he wasn't about to contradict his boss, so he stepped around the desk, over beside Mr. Ingram, and laboriously got down on his knees. Ducking under the desk, he took the cover off the tower and checked the circuit boards, the ribbons of wires, and all the connections.

"How are you doing after your injury, Harold?" Mr. Ingram said suddenly. "It looks like your leg is still bothering you."

"A little," Harold replied, wondering why Mr. Ingram knew about that. Surely, he didn't keep up on the medical histories of  _all_ of his employees.

"Now, it was  _this_ hip that had the surgery, wasn't it?"

Harold jumped as his boss touched him, placing a large hand against his hip, almost against his ass. "Yes," Harold said, his voice cracking.

"This doesn't hurt, does it?" Mr. Ingram asked, rubbing lightly up and down over the scarred area.

"N- no. Everything looks fine," he said quickly, his hands shaking as he put the cover back on. "What exactly is the computer doing?"

"There's nothing wrong with the computer, Harold," Mr. Ingram said, taking his hand away. "The problem is right here."

Harold pulled himself out from under the desk and sat back on his knees, his eyes widening at the sight of Mr. Ingram leaning back in his chair, his fly wide open and his hard cock in his hand. This was  _so_ sexual harassment. Harold grabbed the edge of the desk to pull himself up. He had to get out of there.

"How long have you been working for IFT, Harold?" Mr. Ingram asked before he could get to his feet.

"Seven years," Harold answered.

"And do you like your job?"

"Yes, sir," Harold said, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"I bet you want to keep it for a long, long time, don't you?"

_Oh, God._ "Y- yes, sir."

Mr. Ingram didn't say anything else. He didn't have to. He just sat there, languidly stroking his cock, a drop of fluid beading up on the tip. Harold swallowed hard.  _Don't think about it_ , whispered a little voice inside his head.  _Think about rent and food and subway fare. You need this job._

Harold inched closer, Mr. Ingram's thighs parting as Harold hesitantly rested his hands on his boss' knees. Mr. Ingram smirked at him and reached over, pressing a button underneath the edge of the desk. A faint click on the other side of the room made Harold's heart sink into the pit of his stomach. Mr. Ingram had locked the door. There was no escape, no hope of rescue or reprieve.

_Just get it over with_ , whispered that small, sensible voice, and Harold opened his mouth, taking the head of Mr. Ingram's cock between his lips. He licked the slit, tasting the musky fluid on his tongue, and Mr. Ingram let out a soft groan.

"That's it, Harold," he said, his hand moving to the back of Harold's head, his fingers cradling his skull, a gentle but insistent pressure encouraging Harold to take more. Resisting would have put stress on the pins in his neck, causing him excruciating pain, so he had no choice but to slide down the thick shaft, balking only when the crown tempted his gag reflex. He drew back, lips sliding over spit-slicked skin, only to have Mr. Ingram force him back down again. His head bobbing in his boss' lap, Harold couldn't stop the hot tears of shame that stung his eyes and slipped free to roll down his cheeks.

Mr. Ingram moaned, his breathing growing fast, but Harold was so busy trying not to choke that he was caught by surprise when the cock in his mouth erupted, spilling its thick, salty load. He jerked back, come running down his chin as he tried to swallow. He flinched as another spurt of semen landed on his face, dribbling down his cheek. He was shaking, gasping as he struggled to get to his feet.

Suddenly, Mr. Ingram stood up and grabbed him by the arm, helping him up. Harold found that he couldn't look at the man, his face burning as the mess slowly ran his neck and dripped onto his shirt.

"Oh, look at what I've done," Mr. Ingram said, sounding rather pleased with himself. Harold tensed as the taller man leaned down and began licking his face, cleaning up his own come. Mr. Ingram worked slowly down to Harold's throat, his hands rising up to pluck at the buttons on Harold's shirt. Harold made a soft, helpless noise as Mr. Ingram's fingers moved surely down his chest.

"It's all right, Harold," Mr. Ingram said softly. "If you don't want to do this, just say so." But before Harold could speak, he found his lips captured in a demanding kiss, Mr. Ingram's tongue easing into his mouth. His boss drew back, leaving him out of breath. "Before you make any rash decisions, you should know that this isn't just some office conquest. I have wanted you for a very long time and I want to make this a memorable experience for  _both_ of us."

Harold didn't think he'd ever be able to rid himself of the memory, but he could only stand there helplessly as Mr. Ingram finished unbuttoning his shirt and peeled it back off his shoulders, those sharp blue eyes examining him like he was some fine Persian rug or something.

"Who'd have thought you had so much hair," Mr. Ingram said, running his hand over Harold's chest, his fingers combing through the fine, curly hairs. Harold couldn't stop the shiver that raced through him, or the startled yelp as Mr. Ingram pinched one of his nipples. "Sensitive. I like that," Mr. Ingram said with a smirk. He reached up and loosened his tie, then began unbuttoning his own shirt.

Finally, Harold found his voice. "M- Mr. Ingram, please--"

"Harold, I insist you call me Nathan," Mr. Ingram said. He shrugged out of his shirt and quickly peeled off his undershirt, exposing tanned skin, a broad chest, and flat abs. "Now, what's on your mind?"

"I can't do this," Harold said, his voice shaking.

"Oh? But it's your turn," Mr. Ingram said. "I already got mine." His hands found Harold's waist, drawing him closer. Harold could hardly breathe as Mr. Ingram leaned toward him, lips hovering over his as he spoke. "Just relax. Let me show you how special you are to me." Mr. Ingram kissed him again, hands sliding up Harold's back, strong arms embracing him. Harold stood stiffly, not sure what to do.

"You...you don't even know me," he panted when Mr. Ingram finally broke the kiss.

"I know you better than you think," Mr. Ingram said. "I know you live alone in an apartment on Fifty-First street. I know you eat lunch alone in a deli around the corner. I know you take walks alone in the park on the weekends." As he spoke, his hands migrated from Harold's back to his chest before sliding down to tug at the button on his pants. "I know you masturbate in the shower sometimes."

"How the hell could you know that?" Harold demanded.

"Lucky guess," Mr. Ingram said with a smirk as he lowered Harold's zipper. "I know that you're quiet and prefer a good book to conversation; I know you're not just good with computers, you're brilliant; I know that I have never met anyone like you; and I know that you're just as lonely as I am."

Harold tried to argue that he wasn't lonely, he preferred solitude, but the words caught in his throat as Mr. Ingram shoved his hands into Harold's pants, into his boxers, and pushed them down off his hips. He tried to grab for them as they slid down his legs, but his boss caught his hands, raising them up so he could nip and suck and kiss Harold's fingers. Pants pooled around his ankles, Harold felt very exposed and vulnerable, his heart pounding in his chest as Mr. Ingram's gaze traveled down his body.

"Mmm, you're just full of surprises, aren't you, Harold?" he purred. "Or are all tech geeks so well endowed?"

Harold blushed, drawing his hands out of Mr. Ingram's grasp. He started to reach down for his pants, only to have Mr. Ingram spin him around and shove him forward. He caught himself on the desk, a cry of surprise escaping him as a strong arm encircled his waist, one large hand wrapping around his cock. Mr. Ingram pressed against him, nuzzling the back of his neck, his lips playing over the long scar.

"Tell me now," Mr. Ingram said, his hand sliding up and down Harold's shaft. "If you want me to stop, tell me now."

Harold trembled, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He needed this job. He couldn't lose this job. And Mr. Ingram's hand on his cock felt so good. "You...you don't have to stop," he whispered. But Mr. Ingram did stop, letting go and drawing back. Harold turned to see what he was doing, watching as his boss slipped out of his trousers and shucked his briefs, standing before Harold wearing nothing but a smirk. Harold swallowed hard and bent down, taking off his shoes and socks before stepping out of his pants.

As he straightened up, Mr. Ingram sank to his knees in a fluid, graceful movement, his hands gripping Harold's hips as he leaned forward, engulfing Harold's semi-erect cock in his hot, wet mouth.

"Oh! Oh!" Harold gasped as Mr. Ingram sucked on him, quickly bringing him to full erection. Mr. Ingram pulled off, a thin string of saliva connecting his lip and the tip of Harold's cock as he looked up.

"Turn around, Harold," he said and Harold quickly did as he was told. For some reason, having no choice made it easier. He braced his hands against the desk, waiting for...he wasn't sure what, but his body ached, needing  _something_ . Luckily, Mr. Ingram seemed to know what he needed. He pushed Harold's feet farther apart and grabbed his ass, gripping a cheek in each hand. Harold cried out as he felt Mr. Ingram's warm tongue slide between his cheeks and circle his opening, pressing against the tight ring of muscle.

"Oh...oh...oh,  _fuck!_ " Harold panted, squeezing his eyes shut as Mr. Ingram licked him, lapping at his entrance, easing his tongue inside, prying his cheeks apart so he could push his tongue deeper. Harold could hardly breathe, his stiff cock twitching and jumping, beads of pre-come rolling down the head and dripping onto the floor. He shuddered and groaned as his boss pressed closer, the faint stubble on his chin scraping against Harold's perineum.

Suddenly, Mr. Ingram pulled back, reaching past Harold into one of the desk drawers. He retrieved a small bottle and Harold watched, trying to catching his breath as the younger man drizzled a thick, clear fluid onto his fingers. Mr. Ingram rubbed a cold, slick fingertip over Harold's entrance, stroking against the puckered muscle before pushing inside.

Harold drew a surprised breath, his body clenching around the intrusion, but it didn't really hurt. It was a strange sensation, to be sure, but not painful. Mr. Ingram eased a little deeper, his fingertip rubbing slow circles against Harold's inner wall, almost like he was searching for something. And then he found it. Harold's whole body jerked, a breathless cry spilling from startled lips as a deep and resounding pleasure rolled through him, just shy of orgasm and yet unsatisfying. He found himself pushing back against his boss, silently begging for more.

Mr. Ingram eased a second finger into him, followed by a third. That was a little uncomfortable, but Harold couldn't stop rocking his hips, fucking himself on Mr. Ingram's long fingers, every breath punctuated with a needy whimper. He cried out in frustration as Mr. Ingram suddenly took his fingers away, only to gasp in surprise as the taller man pressed against him, reaching around to grab his cock again. He felt Mr. Ingram's other hand slide between them, helping to guide Mr. Ingram's cock to Harold's opening.

Harold stiffened as the hot flesh pressed against that ring of muscle, the realization of what was happening suddenly hitting him and he grabbed the edge of the desk, his heart pounding.

Mr. Ingram stopped. "Harold, is something wrong?"

"I...I...I've never done this before," he whispered, his voice strained. "I've never..."

"You're a virgin?"

Harold nodded, embarrassed.

Mr. Ingram made a low noise in his throat, wrapping both arms around Harold, just holding him as he pressed a soft kiss to the back of Harold's neck. "That's all right. Just try to relax. You'll enjoy this, I promise." He reached back down, fingers probing Harold's opening before the thick tip of his cock pressed against it again. Harold drew a sharp breath, unable to stay relaxed as Mr. Ingram eased inside. It felt huge. He clenched around his boss, taking short, fast breaths as his knuckles turned white.

"Easy, Harold. It's all right," Mr. Ingram whispered, kissing the back of his neck again. "Give it a minute; you'll get used to it." Harold didn't think that was possible, but then Mr. Ingram wrapped a hand around his cock, slow, deliberate strokes quickly distracting him from the discomfort. He moaned, eyes fluttering shut, and when Mr. Ingram began to rock his hips, he shuddered so hard he could barely stay standing. The feeling of being so full, of having another man inside him, rubbing against that sensitive spot, coupled with the intense pleasure of his boss' hand sliding up and down his shaft, smearing the pre-come on his skin, was almost too much for Harold to bear. He cried out again and again, pushing back to meet Mr. Ingram's thrusts then rocking forward into the man's hand, the pain in his hip and neck forgotten, lost in a fog of pleasure.

He came suddenly, spilling himself into Mr. Ingram's hand, waves of pleasure echoing through him as his boss continued to fuck him, his slippery hand rising up to tweak and twist one of Harold's nipples, making him gasp and moan.

"Harold," Mr. Ingram panted, "can I come in you? I'm clean, I swear."

Harold hesitated, then nodded, his arms shaking as he had to put more of his weight on them, his knees threatening to buckle as Mr. Ingram began to pound into him, hard, determined thrusts that made Harold's over-stimulated body jerk and twitch, dribbles of come continuing to drip from his cock even though he'd already started to go soft.

"Oh, fuck, Harold!" Mr. Ingram gasped, his movements growing desperate and erratic. Harold felt a slick warmth inside him as his boss came, easing the friction and allowing Harold to breathe. Mr. Ingram clung to him, breathing hard on the back of his neck, sticky fingers moving aimlessly over his chest, his hips continuing to rock as he remained buried deep inside. Finally, he grew still, although he didn't pull out.

"Thank you, Harold," he said, and Harold could almost hear the smirk in his voice. He felt so stupid. This  _was_ just an office conquest. Mr. Ingram probably seduced all of his employees, or at least the lonely, pathetic ones that he knew wouldn't risk their jobs to file a complaint.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat. "You're welcome, sir," he said. "I really need to get back to work now."

"Oh, I think your boss will understand," Mr. Ingram said with a chuckle. "And I asked you to call me Nathan." He hummed appreciatively as he nuzzled the back of Harold's neck. "You smell really good. How's your leg?"

Harold faltered, hit by conversation whiplash. "It's all right, sir. A bit sore from standing so long."

"Sorry," Mr. Ingram said. "Next time we can clear the desk and you can lay back on it. Or I'll have a sofa put in here. That sounds like a better idea. The desk wouldn't be very comfort--"

" _Next time?_ " Harold interrupted, a crushing weight on his chest, making him feel trapped, helpless. "This wasn't enough for you?" He pushed his boss' arms away, twisting out of the taller man's embrace as his anger flared. "I- I am your  _employee_ , not some fuck-toy." He began gathering up his clothes, his entire body shaking. "You know what, I  _don't_ need this job that much. I fucking quit!" Stark naked with his arms full of his clothes, he hobbled toward the door. He could get dressed in the elevator, or walk out naked, he didn't really care, he just had to get out of there.

"Harold, wait," Mr. Ingram said, following him across the room. Harold reached the frosted door and threw his shoulder against one side, only to have them rattle and not budge. They were still locked. He whipped around.

"Let me out of here," he said. "Let me out now or I'll--"

Mr. Ingram grabbed him and shoved him back against the cold glass. Arms full of clothes, Harold tried to push him away, but Mr. Ingram just knocked the clothing to the floor and stepped closer, pressing his body up against Harold's.

"You can't quit," Mr. Ingram said. "I need you. The government has asked me to work on a special project for them, and I need someone who is as good with hardware as you are, and if you don't want me to touch you, then I won't. I thought you liked it."

"Whether I liked it or not is irrelevant," Harold said. "I will not be another notch on your bedpost."

"Is that what you think?" Mr. Ingram asked, his expression softening. "Oh, Harold, you're not. I've never felt this way about anyone before. I wanted to ask you out but...honestly, I was afraid you'd say no. But we can start over, if you want. We can go out to dinner and the theater, we can take walks and read books together -- Harold, I'll do anything. Please."

"Let me out of here," Harold said, his voice low and even.

Mr. Ingram stared at him for another moment, then sighed and walked away. He stepped behind his desk and pushed the button to release the locks. Harold scooped up his clothes and pushed through the doors. He pulled his pants on while waiting for the elevator, casting darting glances back down the hall, but Mr. Ingram did not come after him again. By the time he reached the fifth floor, he looked almost presentable, though he'd managed to lose one of his socks somewhere. It didn't matter. He limped to his cubicle, shut down his computer, grabbed his mug and his box of green tea out of his desk drawer, and left.

He called in sick the next day and spent most of it in bed, his ass sore enough that the prospect of sitting in his cubicle for eight hours was unbearable. Part of him never wanted to go back, part of him wasn't sure that he even still had a job, but in the end, the part that had worked too hard and sacrificed too much to just walk away won out.

He returned, half expecting to find someone else in his cubicle, his nameplate replaced by another, but everything was as he had left it. He stared at the small workspace for a moment, then sat down, turned on his computer, and put on his headset. For a few hours, everything was back to normal. Then, just before lunch, his phone rang.

"IFT Technical Support, this is Harold. How may I assist you?"

"Hi, Harold, it's Brian."

Harold almost hung up. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "What does he want now?"

"You're not going to believe this, but he wants a turkey on rye, extra tomatoes, no onions. And he called you Harrison. Does he like you or hate you?"

"I don't know," Harold said with a sigh. He hung up and took off his headset. From fuck-toy to sandwich boy. He wasn't sure which was more demeaning. It took the entire two block walk to decide that being a sex object was worse. If Mr. Ingram wanted to punish him by making him fetch sandwiches for the rest of his life, then he'd fetch sandwiches and Mr. Ingram could go fuck himself.

"Hello, Harold!" called Miguel from behind the counter. "You want the usual?"

"Please. And a turkey on rye, extra tomatoes, no onions."

"Oh? You skip breakfast this morning, or do you have a date?"

"Neither. My boss sent me on an errand."

"Oh? Is this a promotion, or did you screw up?" He laughed.

Before Harold could answer, another voice spoke up. "His boss screwed up."

Harold turned to find Mr. Ingram standing behind him. He took a step backward, putting more distance between them. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk to you," Mr. Ingram said, "and I knew you'd never come up to my office. I need to apologize."

"I don't care," Harold said. "Just leave me alone, let me forget about it."

"Harold, is this guy bothering you?" Miguel asked, taking a menacing step toward the end of the counter.

"No, it's fine," Harold said. Miguel looked doubtful, but he went back to making the sandwiches. Harold turned back to Mr. Ingram. "Please, if you're really sorry, then just leave me alone."

"I can't," the taller man said. "I need your help on this project. There is no one else qualified to help me. I'll triple your wages, I'll give you a month of paid vacation, and I promise, I give you my word, I won't touch you. You have no idea how sorry I am that I did what I did. It was a mistake, an error in judgment, and it won't happen again."

Harold hesitated. He wanted to believe him, but...

"Sandwiches are ready, Harold," Miguel called, pushing the two squares wrapped in bright, fiesta-patterned paper across the counter. Harold limped over, pulling his wallet out of his pocket.

"Let me," Mr. Ingram said, handing Miguel a twenty. "Keep the change."

"Thanks," Miguel said, though he still gave Mr. Ingram a sideways look, like he was sizing him up, just in case.

Harold grabbed his sandwich and headed for the door, tensing as his boss caught him by the arm. "Let go of me." Mr. Ingram did.

"Please, Harold, don't leave. Sit and have lunch with me. We're in a public place; I'm not going to try anything. Let me tell you about this special project and then you can decide."

"All right," Harold said after a moment, but he couldn't image anything short of the IT Holy Grail being able to convince him to work with Mr. Ingram.


	2. Chapter 2

Six months had passed since that fateful day in the deli and Mr. Ingram had been true to his word, not making a single sexual advance toward Harold in all that time. That hadn't stopped him from  _looking_ , though. Every time Harold turned around, he caught his boss staring at him, a yearning in his eyes, a desperation written across his face. Harold knew how he felt, though he tried much harder to keep it hidden. He couldn't help but remember what they had shared: the sweat, the moans, the ecstasy. He longed to feel his boss' body against him, his mouth on him, his cock inside him, but he couldn't forget how dirty he'd felt afterward, how used, how violated. He didn't want to feel that way again.

He was on his knees behind a long bank of brand-new, shiny black servers, connecting the cables and hooking up the NSA feeds when Mr. Ingram came in, his six hundred dollar haircut plastered to his head, his tailored suit soaking wet. Harold glanced out the windows, surprised to see that it had started raining. Besides being wet, Mr. Ingram looked tired.

"How did the meeting go?" Harold asked, glancing back down at the cables as his boss shrugged out of his dripping suit jacket, his shirt clinging to his body.

"Just peachy," Mr. Ingram said. "My contact with the NSA is pleased with our progress. So pleased, in fact, that she's moved up the deadline by a year."

Harold gaped at him. "But- but what they were asking for was already going to take a miracle. And now they want it a year sooner? When are we supposed to sleep or eat?" They were already working sixteen and eighteen hour days. Harold suspected that Mr. Ingram sometimes spent days at time without leaving the office, sleeping on the sofa he'd gotten shortly after the  _incident_ . Harold had even napped on it a couple of times when he'd simply been unable to continue.

"I don't know," Mr. Ingram said, shaking his head as he sank into his desk chair and swiveled it to stare out the window at the gray, sheeting rain. "We'll just do our best, I suppose, and if that isn't good enough, the NSA can ask someone else to build their Orwellian Nightmare."

"You sound like you're having second thoughts about this Machine," Harold said, grunting under his breath as he picked himself up off the floor. He'd been skipping physical therapy for months and the stress he'd been placing on his damaged body was not without cost. His hip ached all the time, his limp more pronounced, and the pain medication he'd been relying on to help him sleep was starting to become less effective as he built up a tolerance. But he didn't have time to worry about it.

"Maybe I am," Mr. Ingram said. "I wanted to save lives, to prevent another 9/11, but at what cost? When this thing goes live, privacy will vanish. Everyone will be watched, everywhere, all the time. That sounds like a different kind of tragedy to me. The death of freedom and I pulled the trigger."

"It's a  _program_ ," Harold said. "It's not like it's passing judgment on people. The only time it will do anything with the information it gathers is when it detects a threat to national security, and to me, that's worth a little loss of privacy."

"Easy for you to say," Mr. Ingram said, still staring out the window. "You never do anything worth watching." After a moment, he turned his chair, a frown on his handsome face. "I'm sorry, Harold, that was rude of me. Your personal life is your own business. I'm just tired and...I don't know if I can do this."

Harold squeezed out from behind the servers and approached the desk. He hesitated, then stepped around and put a hand on his boss' shoulder. "Of course you can. You're just exhausted. You need to get some sleep."

"But the Machine--"

"I'm still connecting the new drives," Harold said. "It'll take at least an hour. Now come on, go lay down. And take off that shirt; it's soaking wet." As Mr. Ingram started to get up, Harold limped ahead of him, down the hall to Mr. Ingram's office. He went into the bathroom and pulled a towel out of the cupboard and a dry shirt off the back of the door. That was one reason he suspected his boss was sleeping in the office -- the bathroom's sudden transformation into a closet.

When he emerged, Mr. Ingram was standing in front of the sofa, shirtless and barefoot. Harold swallowed hard, trying not to let his gaze linger on the bare skin. His tan had faded and he'd lost weight. Harold supposed they both had. His clothes didn't fit him quite right anymore, hanging from his shoulders, his belt needing to be pulled another notch tighter. 

"Here," he said, handing his boss the towel. He draped the shirt over the arm of the sofa and started to leave.

"Thank you, Harold," Mr. Ingram said, peeking out from under the towel as he dried his hair. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You're welcome, sir," Harold said.

Mr. Ingram sighed. "Are you  _ever_ going to call me Nathan?"

"I don't know," Harold said. He wasn't sure he wanted to be that familiar with him. What would he be inviting? He pushed through the frosted glass doors and headed back down the hall. He made it about halfway before he stopped. Whatever he might invite, would it really be that unwelcome? It had been six months since he'd had sex, and weeks since he'd found the time or energy to masturbate. He'd spent almost every waking moment with Mr. Ingram, so he was pretty sure he wasn't getting any either. But could he trust him?

Harold opened the office door again and slipped inside. Mr. Ingram was sitting on the sofa, his head tipped back and the towel draped around his bare shoulders. He had his eyes closed. He was probably asleep already. Harold hesitated, then started to leave again.

"What is it, Harold?" Mr. Ingram asked and Harold glanced back.

"I- I was just--" He took a bracing breath and crossed the room, dropping to his knees between Mr. Ingram's bare feet, despite the protestations from his bad leg. The younger man sat up, looking startled.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I want to help you relax, sir," Harold said, reaching up to undo his boss' fly.

Mr. Ingram caught his hands and stopped him. "Harold, don't," he said. "I don't need you to do that."

"You've been under a lot of stress," Harold said. "I won't overreact like last time."

"You didn't overreact," Mr. Ingram said with a frown. "Jesus, Harold, you should have had me arrested for what I did. Now stop this. I don't want to jeopardize our friendship, because I do consider you a friend. Probably the closest friend I have right now. So please, get up."

Harold used the edge of the sofa to lever himself back to his feet, but he didn't remain standing long. He lowered himself onto the sofa, straddling Mr. Ingram's legs, his hands finding the broad shoulders as confused blue eyes stared up at him.

"I want you," Harold said quietly. "I have for a while now, but I wasn't sure that I could trust you, that you weren't just pretending until I let my guard down. But I believe you now, and I want you...Nathan."

Mr. Ingram looked uncertain, like it had to be some kind of trick, but Harold just pressed himself closer to his boss to make up for the stiffness in his neck, feeling the growing hardness beneath him as he leaned down and kissed him. Hands grabbed his waist and he raised his head.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes. Please," Harold breathed, taking his hands off Mr. Ingram's shoulders to begin unbuttoning his own shirt. The younger man watched him for a moment, then joined in, the two of them making short work of their clothes until both were naked, Harold flat on his back on the sofa with his boss kneeling between his legs, one hand helping to support Harold's scarred leg while the other stroked up and down Harold's rapidly filling cock. He groaned and raised his hips off the cushions, biting back a cry as Mr. Ingram leaned down, taking Harold's cockhead into his mouth.

Mr. Ingram moaned, sending a dizzying vibration through Harold's flesh, and bobbed his head, sucking and slurping until Harold couldn't take it anymore. "S- stop. Mr. Ingram, please stop." He breathed a sigh of relief as Mr. Ingram raised his head.

"What is it, Mr. Finch?" his boss asked, a wry smile quirking his lips.

"Do you still have that lube in your desk drawer?" Harold panted. His body ached to be filled again. Mr. Ingram all but leaped of the sofa and ran across the room, digging into his drawer and pulling out the little bottle of lubricant. Harold moaned in anticipation, drawing up his good leg without trouble, but he needed Mr. Ingram's help to work the damaged one into position.

"Does that hurt?" Mr. Ingram asked, rubbing the long scar on Harold's hip.

"A little," Harold confessed, "but no worse that usual. Now fuck me, Nathan, please."

"No, not this time," Mr. Ingram said, popping the cap open and drizzling the clear gel onto his fingers. "Call me old-fashioned, but right now, I want to make love to you. I know it's just a polite euphemism, but I want more than just fucking, Harold. I love you."

"You do?" Harold gasped as Mr. Ingram smeared the lube across his opening.

"Yes. You mean more to me than I could ever express."

Harold was shocked. He'd never considered that this could be more than a physical thing. It was hard enough to believe that a man like Mr. Ingram would be interested in a shy, crippled, middle-aged geek -- he'd never even imagined that feelings could be involved. He struggled for something to say.

"You don't have to say it back," Mr. Ingram said, fingertips moving in small circles around that ring of muscle. "In fact, I'd rather you didn't, not unless you really mean it, and it's all right if you don't feel the same. I just wanted you to know."

"Mr. In-- Nathan," Harold whispered, his breath catching as the younger man eased a finger into him. "I- I don't-- I've never-- You're the-- Will you stop that," he gasped out as his boss stroked his prostate for the third time. "I'm trying to say something here."

"Sorry," Mr. Ingram said, his finger going still. He didn't look very sorry, though, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I don't quite know how I feel. I've never been in love before, but I do know that you're the only man that I've felt this way about. I care for you  _very_ much. I wouldn't be  _here_ if I didn't."

"I know," Mr. Ingram said, "and that's all I need."

Harold groaned, arching his back as much as his injuries would allow as Mr. Ingram inserted a second finger, slowly scissoring them to stretch Harold's entrance. After a moment, he eased a third inside, pumping them in and out of Harold's trembling body.

"Are you ready?" Mr. Ingram asked.

"Yes...yes!" Harold panted, writhing on the sofa as his boss rubbed insistently against his prostate, making his cock twitch and his toes curl. "Nathan, please!"

Mr. Ingram dribbled more lube on his cock, slicked the head and shaft, and then slid inside, Harold's body taking him to the hilt with only a token protest. Balls deep, he paused, adjusting his hands to better support his weight as he leaned over Harold, his still damp hair sticking out in all directions. Harold smiled, reaching up to smooth it back, his fingers lingering on Nathan's face. As he stared up at his boss, he tried to find a word to describe what he was feeling -- the warmth beneath his skin, the pressure in his chest, the fluttering in his stomach -- but words failed him.

Nathan began to rock his hips, pulling out only a little before pressing back in, shifting his knees on the sofa, raising Harold's good leg as he searched for the right angle. Harold jerked, a helpless cry escaping his lips as Nathan hit his prostate, and a broad smile lit up Nathan's handsome face as he began to thrust, every movement sensual torture, the pleasure so intense that Harold could hardly breathe. He grabbed Nathan's shoulders, clinging to him for dear life, and threw his good leg over Nathan's hip, his heel digging into Nathan's toned ass as he lifted his hips to meet each thrust.

"Oh, Harold," Nathan moaned, his back arching, his head falling back to expose the length of his neck. Harold tightened his grip on Nathan's shoulders and pulled himself up, lips latching onto the sweaty skin. Nathan shuddered and gasped as Harold bit and sucked at this neck, teeth scraping flesh with every jolt of electric pleasure that rolled through him. His cock ached, dribbling pre-come on his belly, but all their hands were busy, Nathan's holding him up and Harold's hanging on to Nathan's shoulders. He rutted against the empty air, occasionally brushing the tip of his cock against Nathan's flat stomach, but such fleeting touches were more frustrating than anything.

"Please...please... _please_ ..." Harold hissed against Nathan's neck, fingers digging into his shoulders as he inched closer to the precipice of ecstasy. He needed to come. He needed it  _now_ . But he couldn't. The pleasure was too much, but not enough. He gasped, bucking as Nathan pounded into him, his hot breath fogging up his glasses. He couldn't take it anymore.

Slumping back against the sofa cushions, he released Nathan's shoulders, one hand wrapping around his leaking cock, the other hiking his injured leg higher, pulling it back until his scarred muscles cramped, a strangled shout escaping him as he felt Nathan plunge deeper than ever before. Feverishly, he stroked his cock, a few rough jerks all it took to tip him over the edge. He came hard, splattering Nathan's chest, the thick fluid dripping down onto his own body as Nathan's strident shouts echoed from the walls, his thrusts growing urgent, his movement erratic. Harold stared up at him, his vision softened by the fog of orgasm -- or maybe by the breath on his glasses -- and watched Nathan come, the sweet release washing over him, a look of wonder on his handsome face. In that moment, Harold realized that everything had changed. No longer was he Mr. Ingram, powerful billionaire and computer genius, he was Nathan, the man that Harold loved.

Shuddering and gasping, Nathan managed to hold himself up on shaking arms for about ten seconds, then he collapsed, landing on Harold hard enough to knock the wind out of him. "Sorry, Harold," he panted, his words muffled by the sofa cushion. "Just let me catch my breath..."

"That's okay," Harold said. He liked the feel of Nathan on top of him, the weight and warmth of his body, the rapid patter of his heart in his chest, the way his cock still fit so snugly inside him, making him feel complete in a way he'd never imagined was possible. Pulling his arms out from under the younger man, he wrapped them across Nathan's broad shoulders, holding him tight.

Nathan let slip a soft, nervous laugh. "Harold, what is it? Not having second thoughts, I hope."

"No," Harold said. "I just realized...that I love you, too."

"You do?" He sounded surprised. "After what I did to you?"

"You've made up for it," Harold said. "You proved that you're not that man anymore. Although...I don't think I'd mind if he showed up once in a while. Now that I'm not worried about losing my job, I think it would be kind of hot to be bent over your desk and fucked until I can barely stand." Inside him, Nathan's cock gave a twitch of agreement and Harold laughed. "I see I'm not the only one who thinks so."

"As long as it's what  _you_ want," Nathan said, raising his head and propping himself up on his elbows. "I'll never hurt you again." He leaned down, pressing his lips to Harold's, and Harold enthusiastically kissed him back, sliding a hand up the back of his neck, his fingers combing through Nathan's damp hair. After a moment, Nathan lifted his head, staring down at Harold with a small smile on his face.

"What?" Harold asked, slightly unnerved.

"Just wondering how I ever got so lucky," Nathan said.

Harold blinked. Of the two of them, he thought he'd be the one to count himself lucky. He regarded Nathan for a moment, trying to decide if he was being facetious or just laying on the charm, but he seemed to be sincere. It was a strange feeling, to know that somebody thought of him like that,  _valued_ him like that. With effort, he swallowed down the lump in his throat. "I think we both got lucky," Harold whispered, pulling Nathan down for a deep, slow kiss.


End file.
